


there's nothing left to prove, baby all we need is just to be

by philindas



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, Minor Spoilers, Post S03E13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6330289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philindas/pseuds/philindas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time, the scotch is in her room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's nothing left to prove, baby all we need is just to be

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick little thing set after tonight's episode. Fluffy and a little pointless, but necessary considering how crappy my life has been since Saturday. Title from Breathe by Faith Hill (whatever you do, don't imagine philinda slow dancing to this song at three am in the light of the refrigerator at the playground).

This time, the scotch is in her room.

He doesn’t even knock; just slips quietly into the room where soft instrumental music plays in the corner and the lights are dimmed low. He locks it without thinking, stepping further into the room and feeling some of the tension of the day leave his shoulders. He can see from the dip of her shoulders- bare in the tank top she wears, her hair falling in loose ringlets against pale skin- the sadness that shrouds her.

She holds out the glass, a silent invitation; he steps forward, his fingers brushing hers as he takes it.

“They’ll be okay,” he says quietly; he sees her head jerk in the semblance of a nod, but she doesn’t speak. She takes another swig of scotch, draining her glass, and she fills it again. “Bobbi’s a good agent, May.”

“Hunter’s not an agent,” she counters, but the argument in her voice is weak. She sounds tired, and his lips curve towards the ground as he turns, looking at her fully. Her hair is tangled where it sits against her shoulders, tousled from worried hands running through it, and the corners of her mouth dip down in exhaustion, matching the faded circles beneath her dark eyes. He knew she’d been working herself hard; between training Lincoln, and now Simmons, and still teaching Daisy things when she could, along with picking up the slack of the Deputy Director needs, but he hadn’t realized how tired she looked.

“When was the last time you slept for more than three hours at a time?” he asks, unable to keep the concern from lacing his voice as his hand comes up to cup her cheek, not even thinking as the synthetic material came in contact with the soft skin of her jaw. She shivered, eyes dipping shut briefly at the contact as his hand lit up where it touched her skin.

“Does it do that with everyone, or just me?” she asked, voice husky with just the hint of a laugh in it, and he doesn’t think he’s heard a sound more beautiful in his entire life.

“Haven’t really tested it out much,” he replies, almost shocked to hear how low his own voice is; they’ve gravitated towards each other, mere inches between them. “I mean it, Melinda. When was the last time you slept?”

She shrugs, but doesn’t move away, eyes dipping low until her lashes brush her cheeks. “Don’t really sleep much these days.”

“You’re running yourself ragged,” he’s unable to keep the deep concern out of his tone this time as he nudges her head up gently, fingers under her jaw and thumb brushing over her lower lip, sending a shiver down her spine and a shock down his arm, straight to his chest. “We just lost two good agents. And they were- good, and agents,” Melinda gives a small, fond eye roll, but nods, sadness creeping along the edges of her eyes. “I can’t lose you too. I wouldn’t survive it.”

“Phil…” the soft lilt of her voice tears something out of his chest he’d thought was long gone, and he feels her hands on his shoulders before she’s pressing herself against him in a hug that’s tight and warm and reassuring. His hands slip to her waist, holding her to him, and she naturally buries her face in his neck, breath warm and comforting over his pulse point. She smells like sweat and grime and deodorant, but there’s also a hint of her orange blossom lotion and the scotch on her breath, and the hairspray she’d put in her hair that morning. She smells like home, the only home he’s had for the last three years, and he holds her tighter until her body molds along his. “You could never lose me. You’ve never lost me.”

His hand tightens on her hip almost without thought, unable to believe her words; she leans back from his tight grasp, hands coming up to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing along the soft skin underneath his eyes, her own dark ones searching his blue ones. “You have never once lost me, Phil Coulson. I trust you more than anyone.”

“I hurt you,” he manages to rasp out, after a moment, and Melinda falters, though the soothing motion of her fingers never ceases. “I’ve hurt you, so much recently. I hate that.”

“We all have our traumas-” she starts, but Phil cuts her off, stepping impossibly closer until there was barely any space between them.

“We’re more than that,” he says, so softly it’s barely even a whisper. Melinda swallows and his eyes are drawn briefly to the motion before his eyes drift back to hers as his thumb brushes against her cheek. “I haven’t been a very good friend to you lately, and I’m sorry, Lin.”

His head sinks down until it touches hers, their noses brushing against each other as they each inhaled, breathing each other in. “I felt like I was losing you,” Melinda confesses in a soft murmur, her hands tight at his waist, fingers digging into his shirt. “You’re all I have left, Phil. I can’t lose you either.”

He doesn’t know who moves first, but the moment their lips brush is electric; Melinda sighs into him, wrapping herself around him as their mouths meet again. It’s languid; lazy, almost, like a drizzly Sunday morning or a late night movie theater, the quiet flicker of static and background noise fading as the kiss grew. His hands slid down her back, tugging her closer as she kissed him deeper, fingers sliding up his chest until they were wrapped around his neck, twined in his hair.

They barely even break for air; it’s a few gulps of oxygen before they’re kissing again, wrapped up in each other to the point where he can’t even tell where she starts and he ends. It’s a kiss that spans decades and war zones and missed opportunities and brand new starts. The scotch is warm on her tongue, and when she gives a contentedly little sigh, settling against him, he knows every obstacle they’ve overcome and every horror they’ve faced and every day they’ve been apart has been worth it.

“Thanks for coming back,” he murmurs after they break apart as he tucks her hair behind her ear, cupping her jaw. She smiles, a true, genuine, blow-your-mind smile, leaning forward to peck his mouth softly.

“Someone’s gotta clean up your messes.”


End file.
